i have been writing a book earlier this month, and that, in conjunction with all of my relatives dying, has rather consumed my time. but, it would seem that i have some time of my own again, so we'll get back to it in earnest.
a ways back [read: september of 2009] there was a post called a bird in my hand. here is a remake, sans bird. i suppose that you can't really hold on to anything forever. [no matter the varying sizes of hands that you may or may not have. there is no remake of the curious text that went along with that though. instead, you get a charming fragment of a dream, as told by the dreamer, who may or may not have been a rusty bicycle.
the garage was copper green, and i remember ther roof of the racer bumping the ceiling as we went down the hill into it.
the rest of the house was a dark brown, and had many closed off rooms. it was sloppy, and vertically inclined. the shape of a hand pointing to the heavens, assuming that the hand was made out of dust and ancient shingles.
we hid from the owner in the closed hallways, leaving footprints as in snow, the cobwebs trailing long behind us. in this room we are greeted by some rotting taxiderm, and a great sagging globe. the world, drooping with age, held up by tarnish and brass.
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